


we get to make it up

by zach_stone



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Baking, Domestic Fluff, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, First Kiss, Getting Together, Injury Recovery, M/M, Physical Disability, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:28:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24477220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zach_stone/pseuds/zach_stone
Summary: “Baking’s straightforward. You follow the rules of the recipe and you know exactly how it’ll turn out every time.”Richie wrinkles his nose. “Where’s the fun in that? There’s no room for improv.”“If I wanted improv, I’d join community theatre,” Eddie mutters.—Or, Richie and Eddie spend an afternoon making banana bread together.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 52
Kudos: 359





	we get to make it up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seeingrightly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seeingrightly/gifts).



> this fic is based off a few prompts sent to me by the wonderful lex, which i took very loosely to somehow create this nonsense. 
> 
> prompts were: planning for the future, trying something new together, and nursing back to health. 
> 
> in this fic, eddie survived the clown but his injury resulted in lasting spinal damage so he has to occasionally use mobility aids/a wheelchair. it’s not a major part of the fic but it is present! 
> 
> ok that’s it, enjoy!

“Why don’t you have an electric mixer?” Eddie gripes, whisking the mixture of oil, honey, eggs, bananas, and milk in the bowl with what’s probably more intensity than strictly necessary. 

Richie, who is in the process of pretending to be helpful while actually just messing with the ingredients still left on the counter, snorts out an incredulous laugh. “Because I’d never use it and you’re afraid of the kitchen.”

Eddie’s eyes get huge with indignation. “I am not _afraid of the kitchen,_ dickhead!” he exclaims, whipping the whisk out of the bowl so he can point it threateningly at Richie, who watches batter drip onto the floor and grins like Eddie’s the most entertaining thing he’s seen all day. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

“Dude, you’ve been here, what, two months? And you have literally never once tried to cook anything.” 

Eddie glowers at him. It’s true that in the time he’s been staying with Richie during his recovery, Richie’s pretty much done all the cooking. But that’s because he insists on it! And Eddie’s not about to deny himself the enjoyment of sitting at the counter and watching Richie move around the kitchen with an impressive kind of confidence. It’s  _ nice.  _ Maybe it’s a little sexy to watch Richie be competent in the kitchen. But that’s a mental path Eddie still gets kind of nervous about when he lets himself wander too far, so he quickly switches back to bickering mode. That’s much easier. He could bicker with Richie in his sleep. 

“I used to bake all the time,” Eddie says, sticking the whisk back in the bowl and resuming his forceful mixing. “You don’t even know how many batches of cookies I stress baked when I first got married. I was very popular with the neighbors until they actually had a conversation with me.”

Richie looks at him in that fond way that makes Eddie’s face warm. “Aw, Eddie, that’s so sad.” He laughs when Eddie grabs one of the banana peels left on the counter and throws it at him. “Anyway, I don’t have a mixer because I don’t fucking bake. Cooking’s way easier.”

“How is it easier?” Eddie demands. He moves his hand so that Richie can dump in the appropriate amounts of baking soda, vanilla, salt, and cinnamon, one after the other. “Baking’s straightforward. You follow the rules of the recipe and you know exactly how it’ll turn out every time.”

Richie wrinkles his nose. “Where’s the fun in that? There’s no room for improv.”

“If I wanted improv, I’d join community theatre,” Eddie mutters. Richie chuckles, and Eddie waits for his retort, but when there isn’t one, he looks up. Richie’s just watching him, still fond, or maybe something more than that, and Eddie ducks his head, inexplicably shy. “What?”

“You’re so cute, Eds,” Richie says, and he doesn’t sound like he’s joking. That’s been happening a lot in recent weeks. When Eddie first moved into Richie’s place, bringing along his four suitcases and his wheelchair and so many repressed feelings they were practically bursting out of the seams of his newly-stitched-up body, both he and Richie had been hesitant and dancing around each other. Keeping each other at a weird sort of distance. It’s gotten easier, the longer Eddie stays, the more they let themselves fold into each other’s space. 

He’s only supposed to be staying here temporarily, while he’s recovering. Some things are permanent — the wheelchair is something he’ll have to use intermittently for the rest of his life. Once his wounds have fully healed, though, he won’t have much of an excuse to stay with Richie. Honestly, he’s basically there already, he’s just been avoiding mentioning it and instead finding reasons to spend more time together. Hence today’s adventure in gluten free banana bread. 

Richie looks embarrassed when Eddie doesn’t respond right away, and he quickly turns to look at the recipe they have open on Eddie’s laptop on the counter. “Uh, okay, looks like it’s time to add the flour.” 

“Oh,” Eddie says, embarrassed by the fact that Richie’s embarrassed. Jesus, they’re both so fucking bad at this, whatever  _ this  _ even is. “Right. Cool.”

Richie scoops up the measuring cup of flour and dumps it into the bowl. “Gotta switch to a spoon now, apparently,” he says, handing one over to Eddie. “You wanna do the honors?”

Eddie is distracted by the smudge of flour that’s somehow gotten on the end of Richie’s nose. Eddie likes him so much he kind of wants to cry. Instead, he takes the spoon and carefully starts stirring the flour into the rest of the batter. He can feel Richie watching him, so he keeps his eyes carefully trained on the bowl. Once the flour is fully stirred in, Eddie frowns a little. 

“Is it supposed to be so… soupy?” Richie asks, voicing Eddie’s concerns. 

Eddie scoops up a spoonful and lets it drip back into the bowl. “Uh, I have no idea. I’ve never made this before. Maybe not?” He really has no idea. He should’ve looked this up beforehand. Groaning, he says, “Fuck, did we fuck this up? We followed the directions!” 

“Chillax, Eduardo, we can just add more flour,” Richie says, already scooping a little more from the bag of oat flour and bringing it toward the bowl. 

Eddie yelps and leans as far back as the chair he’s sitting in will allow, hugging the bowl to his chest. “No! You’re going to ruin it and it’ll be disgusting!”

“It’s improv time, baby! I don’t want a banana bread smoothie!” Richie says, laughing. He swoops in and Eddie’s breath catches at the sudden proximity. Richie’s face is so close. He’s somehow gotten flour on his eyelashes, too, just a fine dusting when he lowers his head to look at the bowl in Eddie’s lap. 

The flour plops into the bowl, a small cloud of it puffing up and making Eddie cough. Richie looks up at him and grins. “Whoops,” he says. “My hand slipped.”

“If this is inedible then you’re making a new loaf all by yourself,” Eddie tells him. 

“Sure,” Richie says placatingly. He still hasn’t moved away, and Eddie doesn’t miss how Richie’s cheeks have gone pink, the nervous way his eyes keep darting between Eddie’s. “You got some on your —” Richie swipes a finger over Eddie’s cheek and pulls it back, the pad of his finger smeared with flour. 

“Well, whose fault is that?” Eddie retorts, without his usual bite. “You’ve got it like, all over yourself, how did you even manage that?” He uses his thumb to wipe the flour off Richie’s nose, and feels Richie’s breath stutter at the touch. They’re so close. It would be so easy to kiss him. For a moment, he wonders if Richie’s going to, but instead Richie sways back and straightens up again, clearing his throat. 

Eddie deflates, frowning down at the mixing bowl and stirring in the excess flour. It doesn’t seem like Richie’s addition messed with the consistency, so he probably didn’t actually fuck it up. Eddie’s not about to admit that out loud, though. They dump it all into the bread pan and stick it in the oven, and Richie sets a timer on his phone for fifty-five minutes. He dusts his hands off on his jeans. 

Together, they clean the kitchen (mostly Richie, since Eddie’s still seated at the counter), and then Richie turns to look at Eddie. “It’s gonna take a while, should we go hang out in the living room?”

“Yeah,” Eddie says. Carefully, he pushes back from the counter and gets to his feet. His wheelchair is right outside the kitchen doorway. As long as he goes slow and uses the wall for support, Eddie can walk the few feet over to it without assistance. Richie watches him, but doesn’t rush to his side or anything. He knows Eddie can do it himself. 

Eddie realizes, not for the first time, that Richie might just be the first person in his life who trusts Eddie’s capabilities like this. This isn’t a new revelation by any means, but something about it really hits Eddie in that moment. What is he doing? It’s been two whole months of stewing in his feelings, what is he waiting for? 

He takes a deep breath, pivots to change direction, and moves directly into Richie’s space. Richie’s eyes widen, his arms circling to loosely embrace Eddie as if on instinct — not holding him up, but ready to catch him if he needs it. Eddie’s hands slam down on either side of Richie’s chest, right at the creases where the sleeves of his shirt start.

“You okay?” Richie asks. “Do you —?”

The rest of his sentence is cut off as Eddie slides his hands up to cup the back of Richie’s neck and tug him down into a kiss. Richie makes a muffled sound of surprise against his lips, but doesn’t pull away. His hands make real contact with Eddie’s back now, holding him close, and Eddie teases gently at the seam of Richie’s mouth with his tongue. All things considered, it’s a fairly chaste kiss, and it’s only a moment or two before Richie pulls back with a soft gasp. Their mouths make a wet sort of  _ click _ as they part, and Eddie feels it all the way down to his core. 

“What….” Richie says, and trails off, staring at Eddie with something like wonder.

“How’s that for improv?” Eddie says, slightly winded. He kind of launched himself at Richie with more force than his body is used to exerting these days. He’s grateful for the warm, solid circle of Richie’s arms. 

Richie laughs, helpless little wheezing giggles, and that’s enough to set Eddie off, too. They stand there in Richie’s kitchen cracking up and holding each other, Richie’s hands wide and warm on Eddie’s back, Eddie’s fingers fiddling idly with the hair at Richie’s nape. 

“So,” Eddie says, when he’s calmed down slightly, feeling flushed under Richie’s soft gaze. “Um. I love you? And I’m sorry for just — like — flinging myself at you, literally, I should’ve asked first but sometimes you look at me like, like you’re looking at me right now, actually, and I think maybe  _ you _ love  _ me,  _ and so I —”

Richie interrupts  _ him _ with a kiss this time, less chaste but just as tender as the first. Eddie’s mouth was already open mid-sentence, so Richie goes for open-mouthed right away, and there’s definitely more tongue action this time. Eddie’s not sure he’s ever been kissed like this, like just the kissing itself is something worth savoring. Eddie knows he’s going to need to sit down again soon, but he doesn’t want this moment to end. Richie kisses him like he loves him. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for so fucking long,” Richie says, tipping his head down to touch his forehead to Eddie’s. “I can’t believe you beat me to it.” 

“You were taking too long,” Eddie says, grinning. “I’m a very impatient person.”

Richie laughs. “Believe me, I know.” 

Eddie shifts to catch his lips again, but his back and legs do  _ not  _ like that sudden movement, and he winces. Richie looks vaguely alarmed.

“Do you need to sit?”

Eddie sighs. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Richie says. “It’ll be easier to make out on the couch anyway.”

Eddie’s face flames somehow even hotter than before. “Oh. Yeah, good point.” 

Once they’re settled on the couch, it only takes a moment for Richie to lean in again and kiss him, his hands on either side of Eddie’s face. Eddie grips Richie’s shirt, slides one hand under it to palm feverishly at his lower back, his hip. They kiss slow and easy, not really building up to anything more, and Eddie gets lost in the easy slide of lips and tongue. When the alarm for the banana bread goes off from Richie’s phone, they both startle. 

“Shall we?” Richie asks. He sounds out of breath and a little flustered, which Eddie feels rather proud to be the cause of. 

They head back into the kitchen, Eddie using his chair this time, and Richie pulls the bread out of the oven. He sticks a toothpick into the center of the bread and it comes out clean, which is a promising sign. They have to wait for it to cool, but they’re both too eager, so Richie ends up cutting them each a thick slice of bread when it’s still pretty hot. 

“Moment of truth,” Richie says, holding a forkful of the bread to his mouth. “Get ready to admit I’m always right.”

“Literally never,” Eddie says, and takes a bite. It’s definitely still too hot, but it also tastes fucking amazing, and Eddie lets out a little groan of pleasure as he chews. “Fuck, that’s good.” 

“Oh my god. I’m never eating anything but this again,” Richie says, already shoveling another bite into his mouth. “Goddamn. We made this!”

“We did!” Eddie says, laughing slightly. “I told you baking was easy.”

“Yeah, and I told  _ you  _ sometimes it’s fine to break the rules a little,” Richie says.

“I know,” Eddie agrees. “Didn’t you notice I followed your advice?”

The corner of Richie’s mouth ticks up in a little smile. “Yeah, you sure did.” He gestures to the bread with his fork. “Seriously though, dude, we gotta make this again. The recipe had some, like, mix-in ideas, we could add shit to it next time.”

“Oh, I have a whole fucking bookmarks folder of gluten free recipes to try,” Eddie says eagerly. “We’re gonna be baking for like six months straight at this rate.” He thinks about the implications of that, and doubt starts to creep in even despite everything that’s happened in the last hour. “I mean,” he says hesitantly, “assuming you still want me staying with you that long.” 

Richie looks at him like he’s an insane person.  _ “Eddie,” _ he says, with feeling. “Eds, obviously I want you to stay. You can stay as long as you fucking want —  _ forever, _ if you want. I love you, was that not clear? Did I — shit, did I not say that before?”

Eddie is so relieved he almost drops his plate so he can pull Richie into his arms again. Instead, he laughs and says, “No, you didn’t, asshole. Thanks a lot.” Then, gentler, “But I figured it out anyway.” 

“Okay. Good.” Richie sets his plate down then, and takes Eddie’s to put it on the counter. He puts his hands on Eddie’s shoulders and leans down to kiss him, sweet with the honey-cinnamon taste of the banana bread. They kiss once, twice, just quick, firm presses of their mouths.

“I love you,” Richie mumbles when they part. “And I’ll happily spend the rest of our days making a mess in the kitchen with you.”

Eddie hums. “So romantic,” he teases. But truthfully, Eddie likes that plan. He thinks that sounds pretty much perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> fic title from “make it up” by the blow
> 
> banana bread recipe is [here](https://cookieandkate.com/healthy-banana-bread-recipe/). i do not recommend fucking around with the amount of flour like richie did, but gluten free flour CAN be a pain in the ass. this bread is real good though.
> 
> as always, find me on twitter @hermanngottiieb if u wanna say hi!


End file.
